


just keep your hand in my pocket

by Anonymous



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Barebacking, M/M, Multi, breaking COVID protocols, hotel sneaking like fifteen year olds, making out like idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25963939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Bubble (n) /ˈbʌb(ə)l/A racing driver is a hard thing to pin like a bug under plexiglass. Ahornyracing driver? Nearly impossible.
Relationships: António Félix da Costa/Robin Frijns, Daniel Abt/Lucas di Grassi, Mitch Evans/Alex Lynn, Sam Bird/Jean-Eric Vergne
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19
Collections: Anonymous





	just keep your hand in my pocket

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lost_decade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/gifts), [zeraparker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/gifts).



**Bubble** ( _n)_ _/ˈbʌb(ə)l/_

  1. A thin sphere of liquid enclosing air or another gas.



\-----

They’re meant to keep space between them. Like the invisible balloon that’s always there, demanding the air out of their lungs to keep itself inflated rather than using it on the shit they shouldn’t say.

It’s meant to be there, a safe cushioning like an air bag, a life-saving system for head and heart. But they don’t fit those to racing cars and Antonio is _so_ close to getting things he really, truly wants and maybe he’s bored of pretending that list is shorter than it is.

How does the song go? _You may find yourself, on the brink of winning a championship and think to yourself: how did I get here?_

He’s never had the chance to tell himself anything other than it’s not his beautiful boy. Technically, Antonio’s not sure he’d class Robin as beautiful but the extended metaphor he’s buoying his own head along with his already reaching breaking point unless he googles the lyrics and that’ll probably just lead to some really bad karaoke choices if he _does_ win.

And he’s trying not to let himself be convinced by everyone else’s certainty that he’s champion already, so he meanders from the dining room to the gym to the anonymously sanitised carpet outside the room with the number Robin told him earlier on. 

Then hovers, waiting. Like having one hand on the trophy.

Like having his fingers inches from the door when Robin opens it and says “Jesus christ” before pulling him across the threshold.

“No, just-”

“Don’t say it.” Robin’s only wearing a t-shirt and his boxers, ready to sleep maybe or at least settled in. “Tell me why you’re here.”

Antonio squirms, even though there’s a pleading tone there that says he can’t stop this, now. They’ve crossed the invisible gap already, bubble burst. “You told me your room number.”

Robin looks uncertain, almost closed-off with nerves. “Yeh.”

“So… I thought.” Antonio decides he doesn’t sound like a champion. “We could Netflix and chill?”

There’s a visible relaxation in Robin’s face, jaw untightened from its tight grit. “Yeh. Yeah, ok. I’m watching this… thing about like, I don’t know, burritos?”

It takes a sum total of the credits plus three minutes before they give each other _that look_ and Antonio decides they can find out what the fuck basket tacos are when they’re back there next year.

\-----

  1. Used to refer to a good or fortunate situation that is isolated from reality or unlikely to last.



\-----

“Don’t fucking say ‘ _again_ . _’_ ” Alex shoves Mitch up against the wall with totally unnecessary force because it means he can lift him on his tiptoes to kiss.

“Wasn’t-” Mitch is trying to talk between breathless, airless pressing and probing and grabbing at each other’s clothes. “Going to.”

“Good.” Alex drops to his knees, hands holding Mitch’s hips up so he’s still stretching, scrabbling on the eggshell paint for purchase. “I’m going to suck your dick, by the way.”

“Ok.” Mitch’s eyes look very wide, from below. If there’s a hint of something sparkling with more tears than champagne, lately then Alex doesn’t say shit. That’s not how they do things.

Mitch’s dick tastes of shower gel and cotton and precum and Alex’s hands make their way under his arse to lift him higher until it’s a delicate balancing act between Mitch, with no leverage and Alex with all of it but needing to steady him. 

He comes fast, urgent, like it’s a release of tension that leaves him curled over Alex, one of Mitch’s hands gripping his shoulder hard just to not pitch forward. 

Maybe he shouldn’t be returning to certainties, to repeat patterns, if this is meant to work this time. Or maybe this is the turn round Groundhog day that’s going to work, enough repetition and variation in every added Tempelhof twist that it's more about revolutions than circularity.

And you need some stability in the setup to get the most out, so it doesn't have to be more complicated than simply lying spooned round Mitch, his hand holding Alex’s.

\-----

  1. A transparent domed cover or enclosure.



\-----

“Do you have a condom?”

“What?” Daniel looks genuinely perplexed. “No, man, I wasn’t imagining we’d be fucking here, you know, with all the fucking _nose police._ ”

Lucas sighs.There are two options here, one of which is stupider and riskier than the other but he’s already in Daniel’s hotel room, in the middle of a pandemic and like, really, how much dumber can they get. This whole event is cursed, anyway; by any right Daniel should be in his bubble. Where that's the Tucci gang, their unbreakable match-up free of awkwardly eating birthday cake with fucking _Rast_ and Lucas should be leading the championship.

He’d let Daniel win in Berlin again, in the proper version of 2020. That’s only fair. 

And if the year can’t keep its fickle promises then Lucas can, when it comes to him. To this. To the them that _should_ be.

“Ok, whatever.” Lucas pushes him back on the bed, crawls over Daniel, waits until they’re bracketed together the way they’re _meant_ to fit to mutter “I missed you.”

Daniel replies “ _mmmfngh_ ” because Lucas has just bitten under the collar of his t-shirt, where his neck meets his shoulder, to prevent either of them saying anything dumber than what they’re doing. 

He _shouldn’t_ press the massage oil bottle into Daniel’s hand and tell him to ‘ _shut the fuck up_ ’ in German in between desperate kisses. Lucas _really_ shouldn’t, two days before the finale, have Daniel’s fingers inside him. He definitely shouldn’t ride Daniel’s dick while they’re clutching at each other and being way noisier than is _at all_ sensible in a hotel full of everyone they know, on the world’s squeakiest mattress.

He swears he’s going back to his room, afterwards. It’s just that he’s fucked-out and the walk of shame is short but still close to unbearable with Daniel’s cum dripping out of him. And Daniel rolls over him, arm across Lucas’ chest and the smell of his hair gel is everything this whole fucked up year isn’t and it shouldn’t, can’t, _isn’t possible_ this feels like winning because it’s not but.

Daniel’s face tucked against his neck, nose pressing into Lucas’ collarbone, feels like salvaging something the track can’t seem to give him.

\-----

3.1 A place or position that is protected from danger or unpleasant reality.

\-----

“Jev, I swear to god-” Sam is cut off by being semi-suffocated with the impossible softness of a hotel pillow. 

Jean-Eric’s face is soft, laughing, when he pulls it back after a second and their playfight-that’s-barely-that has all the aggression it never had slinking away like the silky comforter off the duvet below Jev’s knees. “You swear what?”

“Oh fuck off, for god’s sake.” Sam kicks him. Not hard, just enough to make the lanky fucker lie down, pressing his cheekbone into the pillow he’d just been wielding as an offensive weapon when he flops down on top of it. 

Sam grabs Jev’s knee between his calves, drags them closer. “Stop being a mardy git, you’re still here.”

"I know." Jev snuffles, grabby where he's demanding Sam's hands and arms and mouth and a whole load of other things he's got absolutely no right to but Sam's never closed the door on him for. "I'm glad you are, too."


End file.
